Around the Sun
by Riley Mourne
Summary: There is little love lost between the Nords and the Thalmor, and even less between the elves left outside the protection of its far-reaching talons. And yet, they have a champion; one they despise. A chronological series of one-shots, detailing the defection of Ondolemar, at the hands of the Dragonborn. MA for language, violence, and explicit content.
1. Trade Negotiations

A/N: I had major issues with doc manager getting this thing on here. If there are any errors, please let me know so I can work them out. As of yet, I am undecided if this will be a one shot or a series, so until I make up my mind, it's being marked as complete. Also, last time I published something, FF decided to ignore all my italics and the like. Hopefully that's no longer the case.

Disclaimer: disclaimed. I just find Ondolemar particularly yummy.

WARNING: sexual situations abound. 18+ only; you have been warned.

* * *

Understone Keep was wretched, just as the entirety of Markarth was wretched. It smelt perpetually of smoke and ash, and everyone was miserable, including Elismyra herself. She scowled as she swept past the waterfall and up the stairs of the Keep, the guards staring in suspicious squints. Of all the places for him to be stationed, it had to be here. _Of course_ it couldn't be somewhere like Solitude or Whiterun or hell, even Riften. Haughty bastard had to live out in the ass end of-

"Elismyra," he breathes just beside her ear, ignoring her sharp gasp and irked grimace. "Welcome back."

"How many times do I have to tell you," she snaps, dutifully ignoring the blush that sweeps across her cheeks, " _Don't_ sneak up on me like that!"

Ondolemar's rumbling chuckle does nothing to soothe her frazzled nerves. "Consider it a service, then," he murmurs, pulling her into the shadows beside the grand staircase. "It simply would not do for the Guildmaster of Thieves to be caught unawares."

The Dragonborn flushes darker, fidgeting where she stands. Under normal circumstances, such an accusation would be met with a quirked brow and sarcastic laugh, but Ondolemar has always had an infuriating knack for knocking her off-balance. Still, she must retain at least a smidge of her dignity. "Such blasphemy you speak, Ondolemar. The Good and Pure Dragonborn, a thief?" She flaps a hand exaggeratedly, smirking. "Hogwash."

The way his full mouth twitches and his green eyes spark is entirely unfair, and the Altmer could not control her audible inhale if she tried. "No?" he hisses, but not unkindly, and Elismyra has a very distinct and unwelcome epiphany that she knows exactly what this is about. She only barely refrains from squeaking. "Then my smallclothes sprouted legs and disappeared from my chest on their own, then?"

Yup. She's done for.

Sanguine is howling with laughter somewhere, she can feel it. "I - I mean - There was-" She stammers, bright red, desperate for a coherent sentence that didn't make her sound like a drooling lech to show itself. "It was a job, a heist I mean, Vex said-" and she claps her mouth shut, floundering, cursing at every deity she knows of and then some.

Ondolemar is smirking far too wide and he looks positively predatory. She watches the way his eyes travel down her face, over the curve of her neck, the dip in her waist exaggerated by the snug leather of Nocturnal's chosen. Her already-failing composure is fast disintegrating, and when she feels his chest rumble with an inaudible, probably involuntary growl, she thinks that might not be such a bad thing.

His smile is wicked when he says, "It's quite alright, Myra. In fact," and one of his gloved hands settles on her hip and the other under her chin, forcing her face up toward his own, "I'm willing to let you keep them." He pauses, bending low beside her ear. "For a trade."

And with that, all other trains of thought come to a screeching halt.

This is territory she knows, has flirted with this line with him before. She may not have the experience of a lover, but seduction itself is another matter entirely. All her shattered confidence comes roaring back and she knows he notices, because his eyes flash and the fingers holding her chin twitch.

"A trade, you say," she purrs, desperately hoping he isn't bluffing and yet terrified out of her wits at the same time because she's never gone _that far_ with anyone, much less devilishly handsome Thalmor agents that most definitely have orders to kill her on sight. "What could I possibly have that you want, Ondolemar?"

He says nothing, and she feels his breath on her neck, hot and strong. The hand at her waist slides down the leather, over the swell of her hip and under her thigh, pulling it up around his own so he is flush against her. He has never been so forward, so very agressive, and the sheer thought of what he intends is enough to pull a strangled gasp from her lips.

It is all she can do to keep silent when he bites the shell of her ear, and her hands seem to have sprouted minds of their own because they are suddenly tangled in his dark robes, tugging at his hood so she can feel his hair and _Gods_ she can't believe it took them this long to-

"Are my terms-" he licks behind her ear and squeezes her thigh, and she bucks out of sheer surprise, "-agreeable?"

" _Yes_ ," she chokes, wild with a need she cannot describe, " _Gods_ , yes."

And then he kisses her.

She is no stranger to kissing, but Ondolemar's lips are _ravenous_ and for a moment she is swept up in the sheer energy of it. But it does not last long, and when he sinks his teeth into her bottom lip she throws herself into it. Gripping a fistful of his white-blonde hair, she gives a vicious tug and claws at the front of his robes, desperately licking at the seam of his smirk until he yields, opening his mouth for her and he tastes _wonderful._

His hands are everywhere, pulling and clenching and taking, and when he cups her ass and squeezes, hard enough to bruise, she growls into his mouth and sweeps her tongue over the roof, but it isn't enough and she wants, she _wants-_

Ondolemar tears away, breathing hard and eyes black, and with some pride, Elismyra notes his hands are trembling. "Tell me you've honored our customs," he demands, voice low and dark, and she rocks against him and they both gasp. "Tell me there has been no other."

"None," she pants, meeting his flaming eyes with her own. "I am yours."

"Excellent."

She expects him to pounce again, but instead he pulls away. For a wild half second she wonders if he had hoped for a different answer, wanting an experienced lover instead, but when he turns toward an open doorway, tugging her behind him, she knows what he is about.

Where they end up is a dark, quiet hallway, complete with a storage closet at the very end. Ondolemar pulls her into it, and she has just enough time to glance over her shoulder to ensure they weren't followed before the door is closed behind her.

He is on her in a moment, bearing down with such ferocity that she is almost intimidated before she remembers she's the damn Dragonborn, Meridia's Champion and Hircine's Child, and by _Azura_ , she wants this. Her Beast Blood is howling in her veins and she is so incredibly _hot_ that she can scarcely think.

Ondolemar has her shoved up against the closet door, his tongue in her mouth and his hands at the single clasp of her Nightingale leathers, and she thinks she should be frightened, but her wolf will not allow it. So instead she pushes his hands away, snarling and wild and she knows she is losing control but she doesn't care, and snatches the dagger from her belt and slits the front of his robes. She barely notices his flinch of surprise, tossing the blade away and shoving the material away from his chest, and _Hircine's ass_ he is beautiful. Broad shouldered, golden skinned, and for a hysterical second she thinks he is built like a Nord.

She doesn't tell him. He'd kill her.

He does not let her admire him for long. With a knife-like smile, he snatches her wrists in one of his large hands and slams them above her head, so high up that she has to arch her back to keep her shoulders from digging into the wood of the door. "So eager," he growls, his voice like gravel and it burns its way down into her belly. "This is my trade, Myra."

She groans, writhing under him and he hisses, his hand clenching around her wrists. "First rule of bartering," she gasps to him, "Poker face."

He kisses her hungrily and she moans, letting his tongue probe her mouth while she undulates her hips against his own. She can feel him there, beneath the enchanted fabric, hard and hot and ready, and she is not afraid. Her beast howls its approval and urges her on, and she tears her mouth away and sinks her teeth into his exposed neck and wraps her legs around his waist. Ondolemar's groan echoes about the small room and Elismyra smirks triumphantly.

"Your eyes are yellow," he croaks when she pulls back, and her beast growls for an entirely different reason.

She debates telling him. The irony of it is not lost on her; she is the virgin here, she should be afraid of the inevitable pain of their union, and yet her primary concern is she will hurt _him_ in her frenzy for pleasure. Ondolemar stares back, his gaze hot and dark, and she knows he does not care. At least for now, anyway.

"Does it bother you?" She asks regardless. She flexes her hands where they remained pinned, and it occurs to her she is entirely supported by him.

"No," he breathes, and when he smiles she knows he means it.

"Excellent," she parrots, and kisses him, gentler this time.

But neither of them are looking for gentle. Ondolemar releases her hands to unclasp her leathers, shoving them from her shoulders so they hang from her waist, and she moans when he cups one of her breasts. His thumb brushes her nipple through the thin fabric of her chemise, and when he bites the tip of her ear, she whimpers in earnest. Her hips rock against him of their own volition and her nails are sunk into his bare shoulders for support, and he is going to kill her.

"Off," she rasps, wriggling against his still-concealed length, and drags her nails down his exposed chest. She throws her head back when he begins to place open-mouthed kisses down the side of her neck, and she hears a faint snap and suddenly she is bare-chested.

" _Gods!"_ His mouth is on her breast, tongue circling her nipple as he suckles her and Elismyra scrabbles at his back, leaving angry welts as she tries to gain some sort of purchase. Ondolemar grunts and nips at her chest, his fingers pinching at her other nipple and rolling her breast in his hand and she can't think, except to know that if he doesn't strip her _now_ she is going to explode.

She unwraps herself from his waist, pulling away from his wicked mouth and the delicious friction, and she laments her loss for a fraction of a second before she begins clawing at his remaining clothing. His chuckle is like black silk, sinful and low, and he steps back to remove the remainder of his tattered robes. Her eyes go wide when he is bare, standing proud and tall before her with no hint of shame, and it is an absolute _travesty_ that he is more beautiful than she is. Long, lean, powerful, and golden, dusted with fine white hair the color of snow, and with shaking fingers she reaches out and takes him in hand.

Ondolemar's hoarse moan sends a bolt of molten heat down her spine, and he throws a hand out beside her head to brace himself against the door. His lips go to her neck and his other hand to her breast, and she when she draws her hand up his length he trembles around her. The power is thrilling, and when she experimentally draws her thumb over his wide tip, he bites her hard enough to pierce the skin. Her beast rumbles its approval loudly.

Her strokes are slow, hesitant, unsure, and he quickly tires of it. With sure fingers he shows her what to do, changes her grip and sets her pace, and soon enough sweat is dripping down his temples and he is quaking from head to foot. The sounds he makes are obscene; long, low, heady with want, matched by her own as he sucks and bites and kneads her neck and chest, and it is not until he rips away and places both hands on her bare thighs does she realize he has pushed her armor down to her knees.

"Sneaky," she gasps, breathless as she kicks it the rest of the way off, and he responds by hoisting her up against him and pushing her harder against the door to steady her. The wood creaks under her and still she is unafraid.

He looks at her briefly, and she knows what he is asking. Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she nods, and he moves. With a single thrust, he hilts himself in her.

The pain is immediate and surprisingly potent. With a strangled gasp, Elismyra sinks her nails into his shoulders and drops her head to his neck, breathing deeply to keep herself from whimpering from the burning sting. She locks her ankles around him, trying to relax, and he lets her, his hands gentle on her hips.

It does not last long. The burning subsides and she wriggles experimentally, shocks fluttering through her stomach as he rubs against every inch of her. She lifts her head and kisses him, prying his mouth open to tangle her tongue with his own, and his moan travels right down between her legs. He pulls out just a tad, fingers flexing on her skin, and sinks back in slowly. When she does not protest, and instead rakes her nails down his back to encourage him, he lets go.

Ripping his mouth away with a wet smack, he latches onto her neck and begins to pound into her, pulling almost completely out before slamming back in with a strangled groan. Elismyra gives a hoarse shout when he clenches her rear, spreading her wider to hit deeper, and with a deep growl she arches her back and snaps her hips down to meet him.

It is _exquisite_. He is not a quiet lover, growling and moaning and gasping alongside her, and when he kisses her again there is no gentleness left in him. It is all teeth and tongue and her beast is _ecstatic,_ crying for more, faster, harder, better, and it is not until he pulls out and away does she realize she has said it out loud.

"Turn around," he commands, and she obeys because she is on _fire_ and she _needs_ this man more than the very air she breathes. She places her palms flat on the door and braces herself on her elbows, spreading herself wide for him, and with a wicked chuckle he smacks her hard on the ass. She jumps and groans, and her wolf is dizzyingly excited.

When he plunges into her again she cries out, pushing backward for more, her breasts swinging beneath her and Ondolemar growls loudly when she spreads her legs even further. He bends over her, his chest to her back, and the fire in her belly builds higher when he reaches around to roughly grab at her breasts as he pounds into her.

"Ondolemar," she half-sobs, her legs trembling and core clenching, and she knows he is pushing her further and further toward the precipice. "Please, please."

He merely grunts, standing back up to take her hips in both his hands and slam into her with such wild ferocity it tears a hoarse shout from her throat. The sound of flesh smacking against flesh fills her ears and the smell of sweat and arousal clogs her nose, and she stands up against the door and presses against it for support.

The new angle hits a brand new spot and she sees white. She comes with a rough cry, reaching behind her to grab a fistful of his hair and her entire body clenches around him. She hears him roar, and a golden arm wraps itself around her midsection as her climax pulls him deeper and deeper inside her. His thrusts become erratic and stuttered, sending almost painful spikes of pleasure through her and prolonging her rolling orgasm.

She is forced to release him when she spins her, still sunk inside to the hilt, and presses such a bruising kiss to her mouth that she can do nothing but whimper. With one last hard thrust he spills inside her, and she feels his seed explode deep in her core with a vibrant burst of heat.

His frantic pistoning peters away, and for several long moments there is no sound but their labored panting. When he pulls away, Elismyra feels a myriad of fluids begin trickling down her thighs. She knows at least some of it is blood, but she is too boneless to care.

Ondolemar braces his forehead against her own, his green eyes closed, and draws her to his chest. She drapes her arms across his shoulders and sags, a delicious throbbing soreness making itself known between her legs. "Well," she breathes after another moment. "I think that was a rather beneficial agreement. I may have to bring my business back again."

His chuckle is hoarse, and when he opens his eyes, they are surprisingly soft. "I would welcome the opportunity to barter with you, Myra," he says, and kisses her once more before pulling away entirely. When he spies the blood on her legs, his full, swollen lips pull down tightly. "Perhaps we should not have been so… enthusiastic."

She flaps a hand at him, grinning. "Nonsense. Although," she winces when she takes a step, and his smirk is one made entirely of male pride, "I may have to stick around for a few days before I head on my way."

At that, he laughs wholeheartedly, swiping his ruined robes from the floor with a gleam in his eyes. When she makes to pick up her underclothes from the closet floor, he snatches them away, cackling. "I think not," he taunts, dangling her smalls in front of her nose. "A bargain's a bargain, my dear."

Elismyra smiles, and with a lift of her brow zips herself back into her Nightingale leather with nothing but her gleaming golden skin. Ondolemar's nostrils flare wide and she laughs.

His own clothing has not fared so well; there is a large, jagged rip where her dagger had cut, and would do nothing to hide the claw marks on his chest. She grins at the scratches, and when her eyes travel upward she sees the purpling marks on his neck. Something possessive and decidedly wolfish approves in her chest.

He pulls the robes on all the same, and the black and gold of his loyalties pull a tight frown onto her face. He sees it, and he does not have to ask where her thoughts have gone.

"I'm sorry," she says eventually, trying to shake herself out of her dark musing. "I won't… I mean, I shouldn't-"

"Elenwen has ordered us to kill you."

She sighs, running a hand through her damp red hair. "I know. And I can't ask you to… condone this." She gestures vaguely between the two of them. "She'll kill you if she finds out. Literally."

Ondolemar chuckles. "I am aware. And…" he steps forward, into her space, and brushes a stray strand of her hair off her neck, "You needn't worry. I 'condone' it. Wholeheartedly." And he smirks lewdly at her, quirking a white eyebrow.

"Well alright then," she chirps, and plants a solid kiss on his mouth. "Pleasure doing business with you."

"The pleasure is all mine."


	2. Silent Night

**A/N: Alright. So it wasn't a one-shot. I posted Trade Negotiations and the Muse just took off, and I am but a helpless fool, subject to her whims. I have two more chapters following this one, and they will be posted soon.**

* * *

She did not like his guards. She especially did not like _that_ one.

Elismyra squints in her displeasure, watching the woman in gleaming elven armor as she dutifully follows Ondolemar around the Keep. She knew her name - Twyll or Dwyll or something equally boring - and she knew precisely what was on her mind. It was on her own, after all.

As a general rule, Elismyra despised anything even remotely affiliated with the Thalmor taint; it gave her race a bad name, not mention had utterly destroyed millions of families and lives, and was a dark, horrific stain on her people's history. She had no doubt the Aldmer were spinning in their burial crypts like a watermill in a windstorm, and she took every opportunity to inform the Justiciars of her opinions, Ondolemar himself included.

But _that woman_ got her blood boiling like nothing else. They way her honeyed eyes followed the slope of his shoulders down to his tapered waist, how she fluttered her lashes at him at every convenience, the way her lips quirked up _just so_ -

Her _dovahsil_ is decidedly not pleased, but she knows if she mentions it to him it will do nothing but fan the flames of his already impossible ego. So she does her best to let it go.

Today, however, her patience has already been worn thin. Elenwen's idiotic henchmen were hunting her on the roads, their execution orders laughable in their simplicity, and she was quickly tiring of the necessity of disguising her relationship with Ondolemar - if it could even be called that. The threat of a long and painful death if his superior found out he was fucking her greatest enemy was enough to keep them both in line, although Elismyra goes along with it mostly for his sake; as far as she is concerned, Elenwen could rot in the Void and take her screeching politics with her.

Hence why she does nothing as the desperate _chit_ throws herself at _her_ mate.

She is watching them all from the shadows, perched atop one of the crumbling pillars of the Keep as she waits for his guards to retire so they may speak. Ondolemar assures her they are unaware of her identity, but she has been in Elenwen's dungeons before and has no desire to see him hauled off there. So she waits, and watches, and seethes.

Twyll - or whatever her name is - is being particularly determined today. She haunts his steps, her perfect little nose and beautiful eyes and svelte figure on prominent display in her sweeping golden plate, and she makes sure to exaggerate the swing of her hips when she is in his view. Elismyra growls to herself, her beast pushing under her skin because he is _hers_ , but she quiets it with a sharp rebuke.

And then the bitch touches his arm, as he sits at his desk, and Elismyra decides to the Void with decency.

She has never been one for such petty displays of rampant jealousy, and she is inclined to blame her wolf and her dragon soul; both possessive, territorial creatures with a mind all their own. So she is in firm denial of her own actions as she slides from the pillar to the dusty floor below, pulling the shrouded cowl from her face as she waltzes up the grand staircase.

The male guard, the one who sneers at her and calls her a traitor, draws his sword as she comes into view. "Halt!" he barks at her, and she quirks a brow, amused. "State your business."

"Pleasure," she purrs, allowing her lips to curve into a slow smile, and at the sound of her voice, Ondolemar turns from his letters. The crooked smirk that flashes across his face is only for her, and it is gone almost as soon as it appears.

The woman at his side stiffens, narrowing her brilliant eyes, and Elismyra juts her chin out at her as she cocks a hip. The dragonbone sword at her side swings in a quiet warning, and if a little wisp of lightning crackles over her skin, well. It's not her fault.

"Your name, outsider," the woman demands, spitting the insult with a venom Elismyra is only too happy to match.

"Vylara," she lies easily, twirling a strand of blood red hair around her finger. "Of house Merilanor."

It's a bald-faced _lie_ \- her family's house seat is not nearly so prominent in the Crystal Tower - but the satisfaction of watching the girl's face freeze and whiten is far too satisfying. Ondolemar covers his startled laugh with a cough, shuffling his papers and she knows he knows what she is about, the arrogant bastard. She never should have told him she was from Cyrodiil -

"State your business," the woman repeats, as if daring her to say it again. Or perhaps hoping for a different answer this time. _What clever company you keep, Ondolemar,_ she quips to herself.

"As I said," Elismyra drawls, drawing the words out as if she is talking to a particularly dim-witted child, " _Pleasure_."

"That is not - "

And the Dragonborn sneers, crossing her arms over her chest as she takes a deliberate step forward. "For an organization espousing their knowledge of superiority, you are surprisingly dense when it comes to acknowledging your betters."

Ondolemar's guffaw is impossible to hide this time, and as he snickers Elismyra watches the fierce blush spread across her opponent's cheeks. Her mouth presses down into a razor-thin line, and with a disgusted huff, she sheathes her flimsy dagger and stalks away. Elismyra's beast is entirely too smug as she watches her sulk.

Knowing she is still watching, Elismyra makes sure to trail her fingers slowly across Ondolemar's shoulders as she steps into his space. He smirks widely at his desk, his green eyes glinting with mirth, and she notices his correspondence has been cast aside in an untidy pile.

To drive the point home, she drapes her arms around his neck and nibbles at the tip of his ear, listening the sharp hitch in his breathing with no small amount of pride. She can feel the hot waves of loathing radiating from his babysitter's body, not twenty feet away, and it is her turn to chuckle when he shifts to look at her from the corner of his eye.

"How intriguing," he murmurs to her, that infuriatingly handsome smile spreading wider. "The almighty Dragonborn is prone to jealousy. It seems one _does_ learn something every day."

"Shut up," she hisses in his ear, but she is far from angry. "The _dovahkiin_ suffers no _ronits_ , _dii yuvon fahliil_." And because she knows his love for the guttural, exotic language of the _dov_ is a surefire way to goad him into shoving her into a wall, she growls, " _Hi los dii, nu ahrk mahfaeraak._ "

He shoves away from his desk and stands abruptly, nearly throwing her off balance, and she only just manages to swallow her laughter when he barks, "Twylleria, Gerenon. I am retiring for the evening. You are dismissed." And the stupid _vahdin_ has the audacity to actually snarl as she whirls on her heel. Elismyra makes a rude gesture at her back as she storms away, her male counterpart sighing audibly.

Ondolemar's lips are on her scarcely a second after they have disappeared, and she chuckles into his mouth as he turns and walks her backward toward his desk. "Wicked, wicked woman," he breathes when he pulls away, hands roaming down her sides already. "Always wearing my patience thin."

Elismyra is all smooth confidence and heady words as she growls, "I could be far more wicked in a locked bedroom, _smoliin mun_." And to emphasize her point, she draws his lower lip into her mouth and sucks. "Argis is travelling. Vlindril Hall is empty."

Ondolemar wastes no time in hauling her down the staircase, and her gleeful cackling booms about the Keep as the doors slam closed.


	3. Dawn to Dusk

She had always known this day would come; she'd just hoped it wouldn't come so soon. The inevitable clashing of two stubborn wills, demanding submission with no hope of compromise. They were just too different.

Two months. She had be given two months. She never should have listened to Vex, never should have gone snooping around in his bedroom. It was no longer funny.

They are having dinner together, in her home atop the city of Markarth. Argis had been relieved of his duties and had chosen to spend his night down in the inn, reveling with his companions instead of serving the Thane he so despised. There were candles and incense, because she'd always been a romantic in denial, and she had bathed in rose water that afternoon. She knew she was lovely, but he put her to shame.

At least until he opened his mouth.

Ondolemar's green eyes are narrowed slits, his fork clenched tightly in his left hand and his seasoned steak only half eaten. She meets his glare with her own, breathing deeply to calm her boiling Beast Blood, and with it she can smell his rising anger, hear his thrumming heartbeat. She does her best to keep the gold from her eyes.

"You are so quick to dismiss your heritage," he tells her, white-blonde hair flickering like fire in the low candlelight. "To turn away from your own people."

"My _people_ ," she says, only barely keeping the growl from her voice, "Are those of Skyrim, kinship or no."

He snorts. "You sound so much like them," he accuses. "Men. They are beneath your notice."

Her nostrils flare and she cannot keep her snarl locked away. "No one is beneath me," she retorts, digging her nails into the edge of the table. She wants to throttle him. "No one man is greater than another purely because of the circumstances of his birth."

"We are the _firsts,_ Elismyra," he snaps, tossing his utensils aside so he can fold his arms over his broad chest. "Tamriel was _ours_ , from the beginning of time! Why should we not be proud? Why should we let the true outsiders rule our lands, claim themselves our equals? We -"

"The Aldmer would be _ashamed_ of the Dominion, Ondolemar," Elismyra hisses, and the candles at the end of the table sputter and flare dangerously. "Your impossible narcissism, your cruelty, your overwhelming need to prove your hollow superiority!" She closes her eyes, inhaling deeply to quiet the wolf, to force the dragon down. "Are you even aware the Altmer outside of the Dominion _loathe_ you?" At his incredulous scoff, she bares her teeth. "It's because of _you_ humans look at us and see the people who slaughtered their families, the ones who forced them into submission, who stole their god from them."

"You don't even believe in Talos!"

"Of course not," she snaps. "He was mortal. But I share his blood, and I will not deny his existence." And a mortifying thought suddenly occurs to her. She swallows the fear in her voice when she says, "Would you have purged my line, if I had been in the Isles, knowing what you do? That I am _dovahkiin_ , a Nordic hero, descendant of Tiber Septim and not one of your precious Aldmer?"

Ondolemar remains silent, and he could not have cut deeper if he tried.

Her eyes prick and the _dov_ inside is _furious_ , bellowing its wrath and demanding he acknowledge her power, her strength, her will. She lets it, lets the anger consume the throbbing ache like kindling, and she can feel it when her eyes bleed to yellow. "Am I tainted in your eyes, Ondolemar?" She snarls, and shoves away from the table so she can stalk about the room, tremors shivering down her spine. "Do you think of me as a filthy half-breed, a traitor to the race I claim?"

"No!" he retorts, leaping from his chair so he can block her path. "You are the best of us, the pinnacle of what we strive to achieve!" He snatches her chin in his hand and she growls, but he is undeterred as he forces her to look at him. "And you would throw it away for those who spit on you simply because your ears are pointed! Your own housecarl cannot bear the sight of you!"

"Because of you!" she bellows, ripping away from him lest she strike him. "Because of the Dominion and the hatred they have spread! I lived in the Imperial City for _centuries_ , witnessed the Oblivion Crisis with my own eyes! I was never reviled there, never seen for anything more than I was, until _you_ and your thrice-damned _Thalmor_ bludgeoned the rest of us into submission!"

"We saved the Isles!" he roars, and lightning sizzles over his skin. "Without us, our people and the Empire would never have survived the daedra! We _deserve_ the recognition, the acknowledgment that we are _greater!_ "

"At what cost?" she spits, and her teeth are too pointed in her mouth. "So the rest of us would be trampled underfoot, so you could pitch the world into a war and soak the ground with the blood of innocents?" She advances, getting in his face, and he snarls at her fanged scowl. "So hordes of Altmer children would be raised in fear of men, because they had the misfortune of being born with golden skin? So women would be beaten and raped by Nords on the roadside, trying to stamp out the 'inherent arrogance' and show them _exactly_ what they think of elvenkind?" Her vision is going dangerously red. "So Dunmer and Bosmer can be treated like filth when they have done nothing wrong? So they can be exiled, humiliated, broken down and scorned because they _might_ be Imperial spies?"

Ondolemar's face is pale but his snarl is venomous, and Elismyra's beast is _howling_ in her head so loud she almost doesn't hear his reply. "Such is the price of reform," he barks, fists clenched, and it feels as if he has punched her in the gut. "Their suffering is for the greater good of our people."

For a moment there is nothing but silence, save for their ragged breathing and the hiss of barely controlled magic, and Elismyra cannot believe what she is hearing. The ire boiling in her gut vanishes, and instead she is filled with nothing but cold disbelief. She feels her teeth blunt and her eyes widen, and her voice comes out in a hoarse croak. "How can you say that?" she whispers, bewildered and aghast and so, _so_ hurt. "How can you say they don't matter? How can you not _care?_ " She turns from him so she does not have to see his flaming eyes, the conviction in them, the unfaltering belief in his own words. "What good is a government that cares nothing for the lives of its people?"

He tries to touch her but she shakes him off violently, letting the electricity crackle across her skin so he is forced to back away. It is like a yawning pit has opened in the place of her heart with the realization of his callousness.

"The Dominion -"

"The _Dominion_ ," she cuts him off, whirling on her heel so he can see the wild hurt in her eyes, "Is a fucking _blight_ ; a putrid, disgusting disease." She hears him inhale sharply, knows she has struck a blow, and she is not sorry for it. "I am _not_ one of your people, Ondolemar. Not if that is how you see them."

"Elismyra," he says, and he sounds like a man at his wit's end. "You know how I see you."

She laughs, and it is a hopeless sound, entirely hollow and with no hint of mirth. He flinches to hear it. "Yes," she says, venom dripping from every word, "Dispensable, a tarnished coin to be used as payment for the 'greater good.'"

He is silent, and she does not know whether she wants to laugh at finally having rendered him speechless, or sob because he is not the man she had hoped he could be. "I thought…" she starts, and wants to pull the words back in as soon as she says them. He jerks in surprise, staring at her in such open dismay she is almost convinced he means it. "I thought you were different." And she feels her shoulders slump, the fight ooze from her muscles and her wolf howls its grief into the void in her chest. "I thought you could _feel_."

"Of course I do," he tells her, and if he sounds a touch desperate, she is sure she is imagining it. "I joined the Aldmeri Dominion because the High Elves had given everything to ensure the people's safety, had fought to keep us from extinction. Because they were the only ones doing a _damn thing_ to keep Tamriel from falling apart."

Elismyra snorts. "And yet you dismiss the people you fought for as beneath you," she tells him, and he has no answer for that. "You condone the suffering of your kin to further your own ends. What if had been me, Ondolemar?" She ignores his sharp intake of breath, her green eyes snapping up to meet his own. His jaw is clenched so tightly a muscle feathers in his cheek. "What if it were me in the slums, beaten and abused? In Elenwen's dungeons, as _Rulindil_ ," she spits the man's name, wishing she could kill him again, "Flogged me for no other reason than he could?"

" _Never_ ," he vows, but she does not believe him. "I would never allow it."

"But you would for someone else?" she bites back, desperately trying to keep the tears from her eyes. "You would let it happen to another? What makes my suffering any more important than theirs?" And she presses forward, because she can see his jaw working and knows she _finally_ has his attention. "Whatever the hell I am to you, one of your prisoners was for someone else. The elves you purged in the Isles, the human men and women you lock in your dungeons. They all had _lives._ Family and friends and lovers and people who cared about them." Her next words come out in a snarl, poisonous and sharp. "And you killed them because they had the spine to disagree with your fanaticism."

Silence.

"So what about it, Ondolemar?" she challenges, stepping into his space and looking him square in the eye. His pupils are dilated, his beautiful eyes narrowed to slits. "Here I am, spewing blasphemy about your precious Aldmeri Dominion. Every officer in your organization wants my head on a platter, Altmeri blood or no." His nostrils are flaring and his fists are clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Are you going to drag me off to Elenwen and subject me to your interrogations? Your loyalties say you should. Or are you going to let me be because you're too selfish to give me up, because you can't bear the thought of losing your _trophy_ ," She spits the word, hating the truth of it, "Even though you've dragged thousands of innocent people to their deaths for far less?"

Ondolemar says nothing, his breathing heavy and his face flushed with either rage or horror; she doesn't know. As the silence drags on and he continues to stare at her blankly, as if he cannot possibly fathom her, Elismyra makes a choice. One that rents the very breath for her lungs, rips what little there is left of her heart to tattered ribbons.

She will not continue this sham of a relationship with a man so caught up in his own ideals he cannot see what they have done to him.

Throwing her shoulders back and valiantly ignoring the wetness on her cheeks, she steps away from his heat. "Get out," she commands him. "Leave my home and do not return, if you cannot see the truth of what you have done. I will not share my bed and my heart with a man such as you."

That, at least, draws a reaction, and he finally speaks. "And if I refuse?" He steps toward her, ignoring her attempt to distance herself from his person. "If I say I am yours, just as you are mine? If I renounce my allegiance to the Dominion?"

Her startled bark of laughter makes him jump. Elismyra smiles with no trace of light. "You must take me for a fool, if you think I would believe that." She crosses her arms, stubbornly meeting his hard gaze. "You have served the Thalmor for centuries, Ondolemar. I am not so arrogant as to believe I have the power to sway such loyalty."

He merely stares at her, empty and silent.

"Report me to Elenwen, if you wish," she tells him as she turns away, so he cannot see the heartbreak in her eyes. "I will be gone before the sun rises. You needn't worry about hiding my identity; I won't speak of our courtship to anyone who would hurt you."

His hands are on her arms, and she does not have the energy or the will to throw him off. So she closes her eyes and bites her lip, praying he cannot feel how her shoulders shake. "Myra," he pleads, and what little willpower she has left in her begins to crack. "Do not do this."

"I have to," she says in a voice barely above a whisper. "Before I am unable to let you go. I cannot share my life with one who believes such vitriol."

He turns her swiftly, his mouth on her own before she knows what has happened, and she does not have the strength to push him away. So she lets him kiss her, lets him sweep his tongue into her mouth, lets his hands clutch at her so tightly she knows there will be bruises. His white-blonde hair slides between her fingers like fine silk, and she focuses on the sensation, trying to imprint it into her memory. The feel of his calloused fingers on her neck, the softness of his lips and the urgency of his kiss.

She pulls away first, taking his sharp face into her hands as she forces herself to step away. He grasps her wrists in his fists, bracing his forehead on hers as he attempts to hold her in place. His breathing is labored and he will not look at her. She is not surprised.

Gently tugging her hands from his own, Elismyra turns away, moving to her pack where it rests against her bedroom door frame. She slings it over her shoulders in silence, knowing if she does not leave now, she might never muster the will again.

"Goodbye, Ondolemar," she tells him, without looking back, and steps into the frigid midnight, leaving him alone and silent in front of her roaring hearth.


	4. Dusk to Dawn

He expects her to come back. He isn't sure why he is so surprised when she doesn't; Elismyra had never been one for predictability.

The days following her departure from Markarth are tense, to put it mildly. Ondolemar sits and stews in the Keep with only the company of Twylleria and Gerenon and Igmund's infernal hounds. He does not watch the doors of Understone, does not mourn the loss of her touch or her kiss, as he is sure she will get halfway to wherever she's going and change her mind. There was a reason their kind chose a single partner for the entirety of their long lifespan.

Except she doesn't.

A week passes, and he tells himself it is nothing. That she is blowing off steam in some obscure corner of this frozen glacier of a wasteland and once her temper has cooled, she will return. The dragon in her soul could not be tamed, and he would be a fool to try; so he waits, and performs his duties to the Dominion as he always has. There are letters to write, heretics to hunt, politics to monitor. He is busy.

But it is not the same. Nothing is as it should be; his correspondence feels stilted and awkward, utterly devoid of his usual eloquence. Twylleria and Gerenon's bickering is more obnoxious than usual, their paltry attempts at elevating themselves through his good favor transparent, and he does not understand why. Flattery was an art, and he himself a master, and the attention of beautiful women was never something he tended to spurn.

Two weeks pass, and there is no word. He does not let himself think on it.

Try as he might, he cannot forget. Her words haunt him at the most inopportune times; he prowls the streets of Markarth in the dead of night, searching for evidence of heresy to placate Elenwen's increasingly volatile temper, and all he hears is, _They all had_ lives _._

He tells himself to ignore it. That she could not possibly understand why he believes what he does. That she is wrong, that the Dominion is the last great hope for Tamriel and for peace, and to accuse him of such… such _monstrosity_ was uncalled for and ridiculous. He did what he had to do for the people. _Their_ people, and _their_ legacy. If the lesser minds of men and mer could not comprehend that, then it was not his problem.

A month. He begins to think she had meant it.

It is not a welcome realization by any means. Ondolemar lies awake in his quarters and seethes, _furious_ with himself and her damnable stubbornness. She ought to go ahead and renounce her claim to any Altermi heritage and declare herself a full-blooded Nord, if she were so intent on refusing to see reason. He could have found her early, before she travelled too far from the city, if not for his pride and his confidence that she would come back. He wishes he had. He wishes he had followed her from Vlindril Hall that night and refused to let her leave, knowing now she truly meant every accusatory syllable she had spit at him.

He snorts as he throws his legs off the edge of his bed and drops his head into his hands. She would never let herself be contained, he knew that. She is a wild creature, bound by no one and no power but her own, and she reveled in it. He is not so arrogant as to think he could change her very soul, or leash the beast that courses through her blood. It was alluring, in a way, to know a woman so entirely _free_. It suited her well.

He never should have cornered her that day in the Keep. He should have kept his hands _off_ , should have let her be, should have clamped his tongue between his teeth. He should have, he should have, he should have -

Standing, Ondolemar goes to his wardrobe and shrugs into a silk tunic, belting a malachite dagger to his hips. His room is too small, too confined; he needs the open air, heavy as it is with the smell of burnt silver, and he pads from his chambers with bare feet.

Markarth is silent, the night so still he is almost afraid to disturb it as he slips out of Understone Keep. He pauses, not entirely sure where he plans to go, and without any conscious effort on his part, his feet lead him to the Temple of Dibella.

He does not go inside. It is not the guidance of the Goddess of Beauty he desires, but it is comforting, he supposes, to be near a place of legitimate worship. So instead, he merely stares at the great golden doors of the Divine's temple, and moves to the balcony a short ways away. He can see the entire city below, and he watches the guards as they make their rounds.

 _I am_ not _one of your people, Ondolemar. Not if that is how you see them._

He snarls to himself when her voice, unbidden once more, lances through the quiet of his mind to assault his conscience. _Fool,_ he tells her ghost. _Stubborn, blighted fool. You do not understand._

She owed her very existence to the Thalmor, to his organization. Without them, their ancestral home would be nothing but rubble, Alinor a faint memory in the minds of men and a place of eternal grief for the High Elves. He had fought the daedra himself, forced them back to their hellish plane and laughed in their faces as they died in his hands. He had _seen_ it. She had not; she was not even born in the Isles. She could not know.

 _Would you have purged my line, if I had been in the Isles,_ he hears, _Knowing what you do?_

"Stop," he snarls aloud, because he knows the answer and he _hates_ it. He would. He would have cut her down without a second thought if she had been there, because it was his duty. To preserve the lines, maintain the gossamer-thin claim to the Aldmer, to the Ehlnofey. To ignore such distinguished and proud heritage was a _crime_ ; he could not fathom it. The Oblivion Crisis had killed so many of his people, eroded the already-tenuous connection they had to their ancestors. It could not be lost.

He tells himself this to try and squelch the black stain of guilt he carries. It is a vain effort, because he hears her voice, remembers the fury of her words, and knows what he would have done. For the good of many, he would have killed her, never knowing who she might have been, what she would accomplish. And he would not have cared.

On this count, at least, she is right. The thought rankles; he _loathes_ when he is wrong.

She tries to shame him again, her voice rising in the back of his mind but he silences it sharply. The purges carried out in the Isles had been… trying. He had lost friends. Whole dynasties had been wiped away, names forgotten and ignored for something that now seemed so fragile. It occurs to him, standing atop the city he hated with every fibre of his being, that by all accounts his courtship with her had been a sin. His own standards demanded he seek out a pure line, sire children that could claim the Aldermi legends as their own. Elismyra could not, and if it did not _infuriate_ him to his very core, the unfairness of it all, he would have laughed at the irony.

Ondolemar shoves away from the stone railing and curses, frustrated and confused. So much for clearing his head; he is more worked up now than when he had left the Keep. He decides to return, before he loses any more ground to himself.

His nightly walks to the peak of the city quickly become habit as the weeks drag on and she refuses to return. Ondolemar is too exhausted to be angry; he sleeps little, and with the tide of the war surging in favor the Empire, his responsibilities increase ten-fold. Missives from the Embassy begin to pile up on his desk, and soon enough he is so swamped with work he almost forgets to miss her.

Three and a half months after she left, Elenwen herself visits Markarth. Ondolemar is waiting for her at the city gates, and for the first time he notices how very waspish the woman is. He'd always thought her sharp-tongued, but now, he finds no purpose in her attitude.

"Ambassador," he greets her formally, sketching a brief bow, and Elenwen acknowledges him with a tight nod. "I assume your journey was enjoyable?" He knows for a fact it wasn't, and the corners of his mouth twitch when she scowls at him.

"I am in no mood for your games, Ondolemar," she snaps at him, and he acquiesces with his own tip of the head. "What news from the Reach?"

"The Forsworn have been driven beyond the Karth River," he tells her blandly as they march through the city gates. The guards do their best to ignore them. "Many of the larger cells have disappeared into the mountains to the north; we think they are retreating to Haafingar."

"Excellent," Elenwen says. "Imperial soldiers have been stationed at Dragon's Bridge. I will speak to the Jarl about fortifying Karthwasten with our own troops."

He is fairly certain Igmund would rather die than have one more Dominion soul within his borders, but Ondolemar bites his tongue. If she wants to spend hours arguing in circles with the old man, then that is her prerogative. He needs to see the local alchemist anyhow for a sleeping draught.

"And the Dragonborn?" the Ambassador asks as they pass the waterfall and climb the stairs to Understone Keep. "Any news of her whereabouts?"

He has expected the question and is prepared for it. He does not falter as he intones, "No. My spies have told me nothing, and her house here remains empty."

"Hmph." Elenwen furrows her sharp brows, and they pause below the grand staircase. Her voice is barely above a whisper, and he strains to hear her. "We must locate her as quickly as possible; she is becoming a menace."

He feels an eyebrow climb up his forehead. It is good he practiced his speeches before she arrived. "How so?"

"Whole patrols gone missing, intelligence stolen. She burned the Embassy to the ground."

He is _not_ prepared for that. " _What?_ "

"You remember last Wintersbreath, when we were infiltrated and Rulindil was murdered?"

 _As_ Rulindil _flogged me for no other reason than he could?_

He only barely avoids gritting his teeth, and it irks him to no end. "Yes."

"It was her, then and now. I am sure of it. No one else would have been able to bypass our security so easily." The Ambassador snorts. "She likely stole a uniform and walked right in."

That sounds like something she would do. "How many did we lose?"

"Nine," Elenwen grits, and he call feel the pure, utter _hatred_ rolling from her in waves. "Three soldiers, five wizards, and an interrogator."

The numbers give him pause. "No staff?" There were far more in the Embassy serving as help then there were actual Thalmor agents.

"No staff."

He almost smirks. He should have known.

Ondolemar knows he should be incensed, completely enraged by her attack on his associates, but as he leaves Elenwen to her business with the Jarl, he finds he cannot be, if it means she is still alive somewhere. Such a simple fact is more infuriating than the death of his headquarters, and the thought only serves to anger him further.

He does not _want_ this, has absolutely no desire to waver from the people who had been his life for more than one hundred years. All for the blustering, hot-headed insults and accusations of one single, rebellious Altmer woman who was less elf than beast. She is _everything_ he should hate, everything he should want to see extinguished, and yet he _can't_ because he had been stupid and foolish enough to love her.

That night, he finds himself at the entrance of Cidnah Mine. He is no longer barefoot, his dagger replaced by an enchanted malachite sword, crackling with sparks. He does not wear his robes. He wishes to be recognized by none save one.

Ogmund's cell is the last, squeezed between the jagged surface of the mine's wall and that of a gaunt Imperial. The woman inside does not raise her head to look at him, and he sees the tell-tale welts of a whip along the back of her neck. His heart stutters in his chest and he cannot breathe, unable to look for more than a moment; one instant it is a grimey, slim human woman, and the next she is golden-skinned, with crimson hair hanging limply in front of her face.

When Ondolemar halts in front of Ogmund's prison, unsure what he means to say or why, exactly, he is there, the Nord inside starts with blatant shock before it melts into molten fury. "What?" he spits from his filthy bedroll, the rags covering him ripped and worn. "Come to gloat?"

"No," the High Elf tells him, and his voice does not sound like his own. "I seek… information."

The Nord snorts, but his eyes are suddenly wild with poorly concealed fear, his large hands clenching on his knees, and all Ondolemar can see is a man who has nothing else to give. He is broken, shamed, forbidden from the warmth of the sun and condemned to inhale dust and debris until he chokes on it, and it _galls_ him that he is perturbed by it. The man is a criminal, and he should not care.

 _Damn you, Elismyra,_ he thinks to himself, but there is no venom behind it.

"What do you want to know?" the Nord snaps, flexing his fingers over his bony knees. "I promise nothing."

For several long, tense seconds, Ondolemar does not know what to say. And then before the thought even fully forms in his mind, he hisses, "Tell me I was wrong."

Ogmund could not have looked more surprised if the elf had whipped out a lute and belted out every verse of Ragnar the Red. "What?" he gasps, going limp in his bewilderment. "You're not serious."

Ondolemar ignores him, sliding forward and clenching the iron bars of the cell in white-knuckled fists. "Tell me I was _wrong_. Tell me I should not have arrested you, that I should have left you be." He leans forward, aghast at what he is saying but his thoughts are a jumbled heap of words and hurt and _longing,_ and he cannot slow them down. "Tell me you had a family somewhere that you loved, and I took it from you."

The silence that follows is so loud he can barely stand it. He still has not the foggiest idea of what he wants, why he needs this man to tell him to go fuck himself, but the desire is so strong he cannot contain it.

Ogmund stares at him, his wizened face and thick muscles slack in the wake of his awe. "Of course I think you were wrong, boy," the old man says. "You think I _want_ to rot down in this pit?" And he puffs out his chest, looking him straight in the eye. "Talos _is_ Divine, and just because you -"

"This isn't about Talos, you stupid old goat," Ondolemar snaps. "And _don't_ call me boy; I'll see years to last you ten lifetimes." He steps away from the bars, suddenly unable to look at his face, and part of him chafes at the weakness; this is _not_ what he wants, _not_ what he has given his blood for, just so he could turn around and piss it all away. But the words come anyway, and he is sure he can feel _her_ smiling somewhere. "Tell me you are a _person,_ Ogmund."

"What do you think I am, a skeever?" the Nord grunts, getting to his feet and approaching the bars of his cell. His is far shorter than the Altmer, covered in a thick layer of grime and his hands are crusted with blood, old and new, but still, he raises his hands to place them where Ondolemar's had been only seconds prior. "Why are you here?"

"I don't _know_ ," the elf seethes. "I need - I want -"

"What? For me to forgive you? Not going to happen."

Ondolemar scoffs. "Of course not. I wouldn't."

And then he understands. He feels his eyes snap wide, hears himself gasp.

Groaning, Ondolemar turns his back to the man he had imprisoned, the one who had been the first cause for Elismyra to turn to him in disgust, braces his back against the iron cell, and slides to the floor. " _Damn_ you," he repeats, this time aloud, and slams the wooden slats beneath him with his fist. " _Damn you,_ Myra."

Ogmund's rumbling chuckle grates across all of his nerves. "Should have known there was a woman involved in this," he says. "Makes us do all sorts of crazy things."

"Don't comfort me," Ondolemar spits. "This is _your_ fault."

"Hey, you came to see me, remember? Besides, if it's my doing that you've finally got your head out of your ass, well. I ain't gonna complain."

"Shut up," he retorts, hating the weakness in his voice. All those years in the Isles, all the demons he fought, _everything_ he had achieved with the Dominion. Lost. "You broke the law. I was only doing my duty." Even to his own ears, it sounds hollow.

"Then why did you come? If you believed that, you wouldn't be here."

Silence reigns for a long moment. "I will not apologize," Ondolemar whispers, and pushes himself to his feet. "And I have one final question."

"Easiest Thalmor interrogation I've ever heard of. Ask."

"Would you have done the same to me, if our positions were reversed?" He turns to stare at Ogmund, directly into his face, grasping for one last shred of his old life. "Would you have turned me in?"

He knows Ogmund does not treat the question lightly, can see the gravity in the old man's eyes as he mulls over the implications of the inquiry. Ondolemar waits in impatient silence, entirely unsure of what answer he wants. Stone drizzles down onto the wooden planks beneath his feet, and he can hear the faint gusting of the midnight wind. It will storm tomorrow, he thinks.

"No man is greater than another," Ogmund finally murmurs, "Because of the circumstances of his birth."

The Altmer's pent up breath bursts from his chest in a shaky exhale, and with trembling hands, he takes the rough brass key from the pocket of his leggings. "Then," he says quietly, and his words are halted and awkward in their foreignness, "You do not belong here, either."

And with that, he opens the ancient lock, and Ogmund is freed.

"Leave the city," Ondolemar tells him, and his lips twist up in an ironic echo of a smirk. "I will not be far behind you."

"B - Ondolemar," Ogmund breathes, his deep voice hoarse in his utter shock. "I -" And then he catches himself, and straightens his shoulders. His eyes are clear, and there is no hatred in his voice. It sounds so very strange. "Thank you."


	5. Sunrise

**A/N: This chapter was a complete _bear._ I rewrote it I don't even know how many times, and I'm still not entirely happy with it. But it's done, and it's not horrible, and it gets me to where I'm going next, so what the hell. **

* * *

The rumors lead him to Whiterun. The Civil War is steadily becoming less of a nuisance and more of a legitimate danger; although Ulfric's assault had ultimately failed, Ondolemar muses as he trudges the last few meters to the city gates, he ponders if Solitude would be able to withstand such a ferocious onslaught.

The walls are in shambles, the watchtowers destroyed and splintered along the road. The blood is still wet on the cobblestone, splattered and dripping against the crumbling stone walls, and he wonders if any of it is hers. He knows the city still stands solely because she had defended it. The whispers were flying about the holds; her dragon, her Voice, her magic. Without her, Whiterun would be nothing but rubble. He is sure Elenwen is bursting into flame somewhere.

He stops at the gate, careful to keep his face hidden inside the hood of his cloak. He has had far too many close calls in the past months due to his carelessness to believe he is as unknown as he originally thought. Innkeeper's he had never seen in his life had known him, and had died for that knowledge.

"What's your business?" the man at the gate asks, his tone and posture exhausted. Ondolemar sees the way his hands shake and wonders just how recently all the bodies had been cleared away.

"Rest," he answers, "And work." It's not _exactly_ a lie, he thinks, since he is bone-tired and in dire need of a wash. He smells like a Nord mercenary.

The guard merely gives a nod and signals for the gates to open. Ondolemar does not thank him.

Inside, Whiterun is still smoldering. The soft light of the setting sun does nothing to blunt the cruel edges of reality. Giant potholes dot the streets, mortar and scorch marks surrounding them. Several houses have been reduced to kindling, and as he works his way up the road, toward the market, he marvels at how completely _still_ the city is.

The stalls in the square are empty, goods scattered in the street, and as he listens, Ondolemar can hear children arguing up the stairs in the Wind District. A girl and a boy, he thinks, and with a forlorn look at the Bannered Mare, he follows the noise, desperate to see at least some evidence of life in the war-torn town.

Perhaps the most awful casualty of the battle lay in the center of the city. The great Gildergreen, once so very beautiful, is split down the middle, the wooden gazebo surrounding it bent and broken. The ancient bark of the tree is blackened and burnt, the blossoms on what branches remain gone, and Ondolemar sees the little girl and boy kneeling at its base. As he watches, she gathers what twigs she can, and her friend lifts his hand to place it on her thin shoulders.

He considers going over to them. They are only children, incapable of understanding what war entails and why this has happened to them, but while he is standing about and watching, he hears another voice, floating down on the wind from above.

Turning to face the steps of Jorrvaskr, he sees her, and his heart stutters to a halt.

Elismyra is draped in dragonscale, silhouetted starkly against the crimson sky, her red hair tangled and limp. A great horned helmet is tucked under an arm as she speaks to a tall, black-haired Nord. The children forgotten, Ondolemar stares openly at her, knowing he would find her here and yet unable to believe he has _finally_ managed to track her down. She is not as he remembers; her sharp face is hard, smeared with soot and ash, and her armor is spattered with viscera. Her blade is sheathed but he would bet good money the bone is stained red, and she does not smile. Her green eyes are tired, tight at the corners, and the lines around her mouth deepened from her frown.

The man at her side is not much better. He is quite tall, able to look her in the eye, with broad shoulders and a deep chest. His silvery, carved armor is stained black on the pauldrons and across the chest, his boots and gauntlets covered in crusted blood.

"...relief efforts," Elismyra is saying, and Ondolemar inhales sharply at the sound of her voice. "The Jarl is preparing the graves as we speak."

"We can house a few orphans," the Nord answers quietly, so soft Ondolemar's sensitive ears can only just hear him. "But not all and only for a time. We'll have to arrange for transport to Honorhall." His accent is thick and cloying, and it grates against his ears.

Elismyra sags, drawing a weary, clawed hand down her face. He watches her breathe deeply, watches her bright eyes sweep about the streets below, watches them halt on his face.

Watches them spring wide and amazed.

Watches her shoulders stiffen, her jaw clench. His stomach drops nauseatingly, and he feels cold.

Squaring his shoulders against the nerves tingling down his spine, Ondolemar throws his hood back and approaches. She watches in stony silence.

When he stops in front of her, she still has not said a word. Her eyes are stormy, shuttered and unreadable, and if he did not know her so well he would have been intimidated. But he does, and when she juts her chin out at him in that infuriating show of defiance of hers, he says, "Elismyra."

Another heartbeat of weighted quiet passes, and the Altmer can feel the Nord's piercing stare on his face. He does not look at him.

"Ondolemar," she finally says, and her cultured voice is flat. "You have impeccable timing, as always."

"I try," he answers evenly, suddenly at loss as to what to say. He's spent so long chasing her ghost he never thought through what would happen if he actually found her. "I see you've been busy."

She snorts indelicately, her eyes flicking for the smallest half-second to the man standing beside her, and Ondolemar finally turns his gaze to him. He assumes he is one of the Companions; the intricately carved greatsword and wolfish armor are rather distinct. The Nord's eyes are a pale, ice blue, sharp and cynical, and Ondolemar clamps his teeth around the urge to snap at him to take his business elsewhere; did he not know an important discussion when he saw one?

"Interesting company you keep," he tells her without taking his eyes from the man. "I always thought the Dragonborn to be above mercenary work."

The Nord snarls, pulling his lips back from his teeth as he growls deeply, but to his credit, he does not retaliate. Ondolemar's smile is a small one.

"This is Vilkas," Elismyra says simply. "Vilkas, Ondolemar."

The flicker of recognition in Vilkas's blue eyes is enough to incense. She must have told him, then, if the man's black glower is anything to go by, and the Altmer is _most definitely_ not pleased to have this glorified thug know his personal business. Ondolemar clenches his jaw and his fists, determined to at least be civil. Until he manages to get her alone, that is.

"We were discussing what relief efforts we could employ to get the city back on its feet," Elismyra says, and the elf knows she can sense his rising anger. She steps between the two men, and Ondolemar lets her. The Nord is not worth his time. "Most of the civilians are helping the temple healers. Reconstruction will take a while."

"I'm sure," he grits. He did not come all this way to talk business, and now that she is here - where he can touch her and smell her and _hear_ her - he finds he has little patience for her stalling. "I wish to speak with you. Alone."

Vilkas butts in. "The Harbinger is busy," he barks. "Whiterun is in pieces and she is needed elsewhere. Personal matters will have to wait."

" _Harbinger?_ "

Piercing silence.

Then Elismyra sighs, dropping her gaze to her feet as her ire sloughs from her shoulders all at once, and she looks so very tired. If he were not so completely _furious_ he would feel sorry for her. But she hadn't told him. Hadn't told him _anything_ , if the months he spent chasing her were any indication. Every inn he stopped at had some different tale of her, some new facet of what she'd done that she'd never deigned to share with him. It was almost as if he had never known her at all.

And he had to find out she headed Skyrim's most famous mercenary band from one of her brutish underlings.

"Yes," she finally says. "Harbinger. That's me." The sarcastic cheer in her voice is downright poisonous. Turning to Vilkas, she says, "Head to the temple and speak with whoever's in charge, get a number on the dead. If they had children, bring me the names." When the Nord nods and moves to make off, she adds softly, "Thank you, Vilkas."

The corners of the man's mouth quirk, and Ondolemar is intimately familiar with the light in his eyes. His nails dig into his palms and he wants to _scream._ "It's no trouble."

When he is gone, Elismyra turns and gestures for him to follow. He does so in seething silence, grinding his teeth to dust as he follows her into the halls of Jorrvaskr. The place is empty, the gigantic hearth faintly glowing in the darkness, and Ondolemar has just enough time to think how very Nordic the place is before she disappears down the stairs.

She leads him to what he can only assume are her quarters. She locks the doors behind him and does not speak, moving to the bed before sitting with a tired groan. He watches in silence as she shucks her boots and gauntlets, unbuckles her chestplate and greaves, leaving her in a gleaming scaled tunic. She does not look at him.

He waits, calculating, measuring.

Eventually, she raises her eyes to his. "Well?"

The dam breaks.

"That's it?!" he bursts, ripping his cloak from his shoulders and hurling it from himself as he paces in front of her. "It has been six months, Elismyra. Six _months_ since you left, and that's all you can say?" He stops in front of her, snarling. "Are you even curious as to why I'm here?"

"I can take a guess," she intones, and her indifference is galling. "You miss your bedwarmer, I'm assuming."

He wants to strangle her. " _No,_ " he hisses. "Do not play stupid with me. I've not the patience for it."

"Enlighten me, then," she snaps, her icy facade finally cracking, and it thrills the darker parts of him to see it. "Tell me what forced the great and mighty Ondolemar to the halls of pathetic Jorrvaskr, if it wasn't because he needed a fix."

" _You!_ " he cries, ignoring the jab as he flings a hand at her, stalking about the room. "You did, you blighted, _infuriating_ woman! You've ruined me, ruined _everything_!"

Her stunned silence is far more satisfying than it should be. "What?"

The laugh that claws its way from his throat is sharp and entirely without mirth. He sneers at her, crossing his arms over his chest as he barks, "Of course you wouldn't know. The only good Justiciar is a dead one, if I'm not mistaken."

"Quit dancing, you ass," she snaps, and her green eyes sharpen. "What happened? Why are you here?" And he sees the gears in her head turning, sees the epiphany sweep over her as she breathes, "Where are your robes?"

"A pile of ash in my quarters in Markarth," he tells her blandly, and savors the complete and utter bewilderment on her face. "You're not the only one on Elenwen's hit list anymore."

"You're joking," she breathes, and covers her face in her hands. "You can't be serious, Ondolemar. You defected?" She lifts her eyes to his own, and he is surprised to see the bright sheen over her green irises. "You _left?_ "

"Yes," he snaps, because he wants to be angry and needs to _fight_ and she is being far too soft for this. "I left. I've spent three months on the run, hiding in every obscure corner of this cesspit of a nation, chasing you down." And he approaches her still form where she remains seated, growling as he looms over her and braces his hands at her sides. "And when I finally find you, imagine my surprise to learn you're a common _thug_."

He is prepared when she springs from the mattress, and he throws up a ward just as a crack of lightning erupts from her palm with a savage roar. The electricity skitters over the barrier and he feels the strength of it pulse in his stomach. She had not held back.

" _Fuck you_ , Ondolemar!" she shrills at him, and _finally_ he knows he has gotten to her. His own magic boils beneath his skin, flickers at the tips of his fingers. It is oddly satisfying. "You _dare_ waltz into _my_ city, _my_ hall, and hurl your prejudice at me mere _hours_ after we've cleared away our dead!" She stalks forward and he leans into a crouch, snarling at her, and when her eyes turn to gold, he grins triumphantly. "You know _nothing_ about me, you insufferable man! I can't _believe_ your audacity, to call me-"

"No thanks to you!" he bellows, and lets the flames lick at his clenched fists. She is not intimidated. "I spent _three months_ running from the Dominion, never sleeping in the same place twice, hunting you down! I learned things about you from _strangers_ you had never seen fit to tell me yourself, _Listener._ " When she pales, freezing in place, he laughs cruelly. "That's right, Elismyra. I know who you are. I know what you've done." He advances, stopping directly in front of her, and he can see her nostrils flaring, the tremors raking down her spine. "You're nothing but a lying hypocrite. You murder for gold, and call yourself noble. You accuse _me_ of monstrous crimes, tell _me_ I've done the unforgivable, when you do the very same things for nothing but _money!_ "

She shoves him. Plants both palms flat on his chest and heaves, forcing him away from her. He snarls as he stumbles, and her sneer is nothing short of venomous. " _Shut_ up," she spits. "Just shut your fucking mouth, Ondolemar. I never claimed to be a saint."

"No. You just pretended to be. You thought-"

"You want to know all about me?" she interrupts, stomping into his space so she can jab a finger into his chest. "You want to know all my dirty secrets? Fine. I'll tell you." And she looks him dead in the eye when she tells him flatly, "I killed the Emperor of Tamriel for gold. I am the Champion of _nine_ daedric princes, including Molag Bol and Mehrunes Dagon." She turns away, ticking at her fingers. "I'm a werewolf, and happy to be so. I joined a reclusive cult of pure-blooded vampires for _nothing_ but power alone, then betrayed their cause by choosing the Beast Blood over immortality. I'm the Guildmaster of Thieves - you knew that already - but I became so by gutting my predecessor and leaving his body to rot at the bottom of a lake." She takes a deep breath, tugs her fingers through her matted hair, and refuses to look at him. He is glad of it. "I devour the souls of dragons and _enjoy it._ I hear them cry out in my mind, hear them wail in my sleep, and it does nothing but sate the lust for power imbued in my very bones." When she finally looks over her shoulder at him, her brilliant eyes are dead. The fire in his palms vanishes. " _That_ is who I am, Ondolemar. I never had any illusions otherwise."

Silence.

He could not say anything even if he wanted to; his tongue feels like lead in his mouth and it is like all the fight has been leached straight from him. Ondolemar can only stare at her, his gaze unfathomable and distant. Elismyra watches him with something akin to exasperation in her green irises.

"So there," she finally intones, when it becomes clear he is not going to respond. "That's everything. The woman you forsook the Dominion for is, in fact, a daedric pawn, a killer. And I'm not sorry for it." The she-elf looks away, and he still cannot think of a single word to say. "The need to conquer, for power, for _domination_ ," And she chuckles mirthlessly, "Is who I am. There is a reason the _dov_ are solitary creatures; we don't play well with others."

Ondolemar cannot help the dry bark of laughter that bursts from his chest. "That is not precisely true," he rumbles, and he does not know what he is saying until after he has said it. "You choose to… barter with me, if I recall correctly."

Her smile is a sad one, and it does not touch her eyes. "I did. I shouldn't have, but I did. And I'm not sorry for that, either." Taking a deep breath, she says, "But we cannot return to that… that." When he opens his mouth to protest - aghast at himself for _wanting_ it after everything she told him, everything she put him through, and at _her_ for refusing him after so much time apart - she speaks over him. "I stand by what I said, six months ago. The Dominion-"

"I'm not part of it anymore," he reminds her, perhaps a tad too loudly. "You-"

"Exactly," she interrupts him again, and he wants to scream for her to _let him speak,_ "Me. You did not leave because you had a change of heart, Ondolemar. You left because you missed me."

"No," he argues. "That is not the entirety of it. I did miss you, yes - don't look so smug - but you were right. Partially." And he cannot meet her eyes when he admits, "The Aldmer would not have wanted to see their children so divided. To see us kill each other in their name." A beat of silence. "I released Ogmund."

" _What?!_ "

"The night I defected. I let him go."

The surprise on her face is almost comical. Elismyra gapes at him, eyes huge and jaw slack, until she manages to catch a hold of her thoughts and shakes herself back into coherence. "You still think yourself above men, Ondolemar."

"Well," he quips with an uneven smirk, "I am uncommonly handsome."

He kisses her when she laughs, and half expects her to shove him away. When she doesn't, tensing under his fingertips for half a second before allowing herself to relax against his chest, he slides his hands from her face, down her neck and over her waist, recommitting the feel of her to his memory. The scaled tunic she wears snags his own clothing and rustles with her movements, and she smells of blood and smoke, but she is _Elismyra_ , and she is his.

He moves to her neck, gently scraping his teeth over her thrumming pulse, and when she sighs it is all he can do to keep from chuckling in triumph. But when his fingers move to the laces holding the scales of her shirt together, she freezes.

"Wait," she breathes, catching his wrists in her own hands, and her voice is hoarse and deep with want. Ondolemar does not lift his head, drawing a thin line with his tongue up her neck to the spot behind her ear he knows will change her mind, and he feels her hands clench around his own, and he smirks. "Wait. Ondolemar-"

"No talking."

"On one condition-"

" _What?_ "

"Join the Companions."


	6. Dayspring

**A/N: I apologize for the delay. I'm a full-time college student who is also trying to plan her wedding. The Muse is extremely tired these days.**

 **Thank you to those who reviewed; you made my day! I'm so glad you are enjoying the story.**

 **WARNING : sexual content. 18+ only.**

* * *

It is three weeks following the battle for Whiterun, and Elismyra is not amused.

Vilkas and Ondolemar stand before her, the former with a black eye and smoldering hair and the latter with a bloody nose and split lip. Both are scowling so severely she would not be surprised if their faces became permanently etched that way, and the Altmer's skin is still faintly crackling with lightning. She supposes she's lucky Aela intervened when she did; it could have been far worse.

She feels decidedly like a scolding mother when she snaps, "What is the matter with you two?"

"He started-"

"Stupid _Nord-_ "

" _Enough!_ " The she-elf barks, beating back the overwhelming urge to tear out her own hair. "You are both grown men, warriors of the Companions, and _you_ are Harbinger Regent, Vilkas." She stares him down with a frosty glare. "And you're scuffling in the yard like rotten boys. I will _not_ have it." Turning to Ondolemar, she hisses, "I brought you into the fold to prove you have severed all ties to the Thalmor. This," she gestures vaguely between the two of them, "Tells me you ought to pack up and start the trek back to Markarth."

"He doubted my allegiance to you!"

"And you responded by socking him in the face?" She grits, irked. "How very Nord-like. No, I'm serious," she adds when she sees his shocked disgust. "You're practically one of them, now."

"I certainly smell like one," Ondolemar quips, with a pointed sneer in Vilkas's direction. The Nord pleads with Elismyra with his eyes. She cannot help but smirk.

Folding her arms across her chest, Elismyra puts on her best in-charge face and stares coldly at the both of them. "The Companions cannot be seen as a splintered group of mercenaries. We are more than that, and I will not let the two of you let your tempers destroy our hard-won reputation." She only barely smothers her grin. "If we cannot work together, we are no better than common bandits. Vilkas," and she knows he knows what is coming, if his desperately wide eyes are anything to go by, "You are hereby assigned to Ondolemar as his Shield-Brother."

"But - I -" The Nord splutters, and the Altmer is not much better, gaping in horrified disbelief. "I'm _your_ Shield-Brother!"

"An easy enough adjustment. Aela has been without a Shield-Sibling for too long; I'm sure she won't mind."

"Myra," Ondolemar tries, letting his voice dip an octave, but if he thinks she's the kind of woman to be swayed so easily, he has another thing coming. "This will hardly be constructive."

Ignoring him completely, Elismyra marches past the both of them into her quarters, only to return a moment later with a thick sheaf of papers in her hand: their contract ledger. She can feel both of their smoldering glares boring holes into her face, but she brushes them off as if they are no more than gnats. If they want to act like children, they will be treated like children.

"Ah," she says, after she has scanned and flipped through several pages, "Here we are. Your first assignment." And she smacks the page of the ledger with her hand in overblown, dramatic joy. "Shimmermist Cave. Clear it out."

"There are Falmer in there!" They both cry in unison.

"Exactly. Hence the need to clear it out."

Vilkas is seething and Ondolemar is not much better, both men balling their hands into fists and refusing to look at one another as they snarl at her hard smirk, but Elismyra will not be swayed. Vilkas is a dear friend and confidante, it is true, but he is still her subordinate. Ondolemar… is another matter entirely, but she does not let herself think on it. She knows he will find her later to give her a piece of his mind. Loudly, if she were to put money on it.

Sure enough, when the sun has set and the evening meal is concluded, he is waiting for her in her quarters. His sharp face is drawn, his jaw clenched, and she feels the pulse of his magic ripple over her skin. She closes the door with painful gentleness and waits.

"Why?" he finally says, and the simple question feels so unbearably heavy. Elismyra knows he is not merely asking about Vilkas.

"Because I do not understand you, Ondolemar," she answers quietly, and moves to the bed. She sits with a soft sigh, untying her plait and running her fingers through her red hair. He watches in frigid silence. "You appear in Whiterun on the heels of a horrific battle, claiming to have renounced the Dominion. You claim you..." she searches for the word, "...care, for me, and yet you harass my friends and belittle my choices." She cannot look at him. "I just… don't understand what you are looking for."

Ondolemar is silent, a true testament to his anger. Elismyra does not think she has ever heard him so quiet, and the tingle of his magic becomes sharper as his breathing labors. Her wolf waits in tense anticipation.

"You," he begins, his voice dangerously calm, "Are looking for ways to punish me."

"No," she argues, and she is so _tired_ of going around in circles with him on this, "I'm trying to avoid repeating what happened in Markarth." And she remembers the fire in his green eyes, the conviction in his venomous words, and the knife in her chest when he all but admitted he would have killed her.

Ondolemar snarls poisonously at her, unfolding his arms from across his chest to flex his fingers. His restraint is thin; she can almost hear the buzz of his magic, smell the crackling ozone of lightning, but her beast is strangely calm. She knows he is no match for her.

"Why?" he demands again. "Why are you so afraid of the past, Elismyra? I'm a wanted man, hunted just as you are! What more do you want from me?"

"I want to be able to _trust_ you!" she cries, hurt. "You're still exactly like the Ondolemar of the Thalmor, the one who would have murdered me in the Isles. You say you've changed, that you were wrong, but you act as if you still don't care." And to her horror, her breath begins to snag in her throat and her eyes being to sting, and this is _not_ how she wants things to be with him. "I cannot-" And she struggles to control her voice, "I do not want to spend my days wondering if you're going to slip a dagger between my ribs."

He looks as though she's shot him. His mouth falls open and his pallor dims, the beautiful gold of his skin dulling to a sickly yellow. Ondolemar's magic vanishes with a snap, sucked back into his form, and she almost misses its throbbing burn. "Myra-"

"Don't," she begs. "Please."

The Altmer ignores her entirely, moving into her space and taking her chin in one large hand, forcing her to look at him. "You will _listen_ ," he tells her sternly, "And you will not doubt me when I say that I love you, you _infuriating_ woman. Why would I throw away centuries of my life, choose to live as a stinking mercenary, and tolerate that unbearable _beast_ of a man if I wanted to kill you?"

"Because the Thalmor are all you know," she reminds him quietly, "And I hardly think punching Vilkas in the face means you 'tolerate' him." Gently, she pries his hand away, craving his touch but remembering all too well what had happened the last time she had indulged in him. "You cannot love me, Ondolemar."

"I do."

"You do not know me. Not truly; I've gone to great pains to make sure of it."

"As I am well aware," he answers darkly, his eyes turning thunderous. "Yet I will never understand why."

Her smile is achingly sad, and she feels her lashes dampening. He brushes at her cheek with his thumb, and he is so utterly _tender_ that it hurts. "Perhaps one day I will tell you," she breathes, "But not today." And at his hurt expression, she sighs, brushing her fingers across his smooth jaw. "I brought you here because I _want_ to trust you, Ondolemar. I know the man you can be, the one you try so hard to deny. _That_ is the man I love." Ignoring his sharp intake of breath, she forges onward. "But until the day comes when he is the man you choose to be, I cannot-"

He kisses her, so softly she is almost sure she is imagining it, and when she cannot keep back her sigh he cups her face in both his hands, long fingers just brushing her ears. Elismyra struggles to hold onto her resolve, and it is weakened further still when he gently presses his tongue to her bottom lip. Her mouth opens without her permission, and he tastes like honeyed mead and snowberries.

"You love me," he breathes against her skin, and she swallows noisily, her eyes fluttering and her heart thrumming loudly in her chest, "Do not push me away."

"I have to," she gasps, and even to her own ears she does not sound convincing.

"No," he says. "You don't."

The kiss following takes her breath away; he is _everywhere,_ his hands at her waist and in her hair, his scent filling her sensitive nose, his mouth warm and wet and so very _familiar_ , and her wolf stirs hungrily. But this is not the place for selfishness, for taking and hunting and savagery.

So she silences it, and pulls him in.

It is unlike any previous encounter they have had; without the threat of his colleagues breathing down their necks, without need of secrecy or fear or speed. He kisses her with a reverence, a slow, burning passion that had always escaped her in their frenzied trysts.

He pulls the laces of her tunic open slowly, his hands creeping under the fabric to caress her scarred and puckered skin. She pulls his hair from its horsetail and combs her fingers through the silken strands, and surrenders.

They disrobe gradually, mapping skin and tasting scars; he traces patterns over her bare ribs and massages her hips, and she feels every line of muscle in his back and across his shoulders. She laughs breathlessly when she discovers he is ticklish.

When he finally enters her, almost lazily with a sensual, gentle glide, it is so achingly _right_ that she cannot help but whimper, her eyes closed and his lips at her neck. She locks her ankles around his waist, smooths her hands down the planes of chest, and arches into him. She does not care if she will regret this in the morning; she has _missed_ him.

They move together for what could easily have been hours; Elismyra loses count of the times he coaxes her to the knife's edge, only to drive her back down as he pulls away, leaving her empty and wanting. She keens every time and his chuckle is the most unguarded she has ever heard.

His brow is soaked with sweat and she is not much better; she can feel the rivulets dripping down her temples, sliding between her breasts, and his skin slides against hers when he moves within her, only just brushing the softest parts of her, and she thinks he could kill her now and she wouldn't even care.

When the end finally comes, when his hips lose their careful rhythm and his hair is plastered to his neck, she digs her fingernails into his shoulders and bites at the shell of his ear. He chokes, grasps her thigh from where it rests at his waist and hoists it higher, and she sees white.

Elismyra gasps raggedly as her climax crashes into her, slamming into her with all the wild force of a firestorm, and Ondolemar follows her over with a hoarse cry, bracing his forehead against her own as she pulses around him, and he spills himself deep within her.

They lie together afterward, and she knows she should feel some semblance of shame, of frustration and anger at her own stupidity because she _knows_ what this road leads to, but she finds she cannot when he gathers her to him and presses his nose into her sweat-soaked hair and just breathes.

When their heartbeats have slowed and she knows he is about to fall asleep - apparently unconcerned with the fact that he has his own bed and the gossip in the morning is going to spread like magefire - she asks, "Please, just try."

"Hm?"

"With Vilkas. With all of them. And not just for me." She brushes a stray strand of white-blonde hair from his neck. "For them. For you."

The smirk that twitches at the corners of his mouth is tired, but still smug nonetheless. "On one condition."

She tries not to laugh. "What?"

"Marry me."


	7. High Noon

**A/N: It's done. It's finally done. Between finals and summer school and arguing with caterers I managed to crank this thing out at four this morning because I couldn't stand another minute of it languishing. This is the last installment, unless I'm hit with some random inspiration in the near future.**

 **I have an idea for another one-shot in the same universe as my story _Beyond the Sea_ (which I shamelessly referenced here), so keep an eye out for it. And thank you so much to those who reviewed; it really does give you a kick in the pants to finish. **

* * *

Shimmermist Cave had been disgusting and putrid and horrific and the very embodiment of every terrible thing that had happened to him up to this point. Ondolemar shudders as he stabs his battered steel shortsword into the dirt of the Whiterun plains, unable to bear the sight of Falmer fluids a second longer. Vilkas scowls at him nearby.

"You need proper training," the Nord snaps when the Altmer pushes himself to his feet. "Magic will only get you so far, and we are not the College of Winterhold."

"Believe me, I am well aware," Ondolemar fires back, slamming his sword back into its sheath with far more force than strictly necessary. He is woefully unskilled with the weapon; the Dominion's military, before he'd been promoted, had focused on grace, speed, and flexibility. He had been taught to strengthen his body to stimulate the mind, to hone his magic until it was as natural and effortless as breathing to summon storms. Never, not _once_ , had someone handed him a hunk of metal and told him to flail about.

He can feel the waves of disapproval rolling off of Vilkas from where he stands, and Ondolemar does his very best to ignore him. If either of them want to avoid having to take any more of these little adventures together, he'd best keep his mouth shut.

The human seems to have the same idea, because it is several moments before he speaks again, and when he does, his accented voice is considerably more even. "The sun is going down," he notes, shielding his eyes as he faces west. "We do not have enough light left to make it back to Jorrvaskr."

"Are you suggesting camping in front of this daedra-cursed cave?"

"No," Vilkas snaps, before he sets his jaw. "We'll make for the river and set up there for the night. There should be enough game for supper." And as he brushes by the Altmer, he asks, "How's your aim?"

Extraordinary, it turns out; Ondolemar finds arrows and fletching much more to his liking than flinging a sword about. It was not so different from directing lightning, if perhaps a bit less precise. His shoulders ache and his fingers are bleeding by the time he has managed to kill a large buck, but as he lugs it back to their small camp across his back, the look of begrudging respect on the Nord's face makes his sore muscles worth it.

"Do you know how to skin it?"

"Of course. I am not an imbecile."

"My mistake," Vilkas sneers, and flips him a narrow knife. "Get to it."

Ondolemar only just avoids bristling, clenching his jaw as he catches the wolf-bone handle in his palm and makes the first cut. It is gory, messy work, but he remembers these days well from his time as a foot soldier, and he finds his hands recall the movements better than his mind does.

He works in silence for several long minutes while Vilkas watches him from the other side of the fire, brow furrowed and elbows braced on his knees. He is a slim man, by Nord standards; smaller than his great hulking brute of a brother, but what he lacks in muscle he makes up for in height. He is a head shorter than Ondolemar himself, but he remembers the way the man had looked at Elismyra's eyes, the day he came to Whiterun, and how their faces had been on the same level and _entirely too close_ -

Six and a half feet, then. Give or take.

"You're ripping the meat," the Nord notes flatly. "Pay attention."

"You do it, then," Ondolemar spits back, eyes snapping up from his kill - where indeed his hands had strayed from their course - and glares at the other man. "And cease your staring. It is unnerving."

"Not so much as your presence in Whiterun," Vilkas growls darkly, and the elf stills before can stop himself. He had hoped to avoid such a discussion; he doubts his ability to keep his temper, and if the violent storm brewing in the Nord's eyes is any indication, he is not a man of patience, either.

When Vilkas stands, Ondolemar halts his skinning entirely and sits back on his haunches, bracing himself for the inevitable. He can already hear Elismyra's frustrated admonishments.

To the Altmer's considerable surprise, he does not approach; Vilkas stays on his side of the campfire and paces, hands behind his back, and just when Ondolemar thinks he has thought better of instigating an argument, he speaks.

"Why are you here?"

He feels his brow quirk, and before he can stop himself, Ondolemar quips, "Because Elismyra told me to. I thought that was rather obvious."

"Knock it off," the human snaps, and pins him with his cold blue eyes and the Altmer feels the gooseflesh erupt on his skin. "You know what I mean. Why did you come to Whiterun? Why join the Companions when you loathe it so much? You do not belong here."

"I wonder if you spoke those exact words to her when she joined your cause," the elf spits, incensed. He does not have to explain himself to this barbarian, and the Eight take him if he lets himself be needled. "Magic runs in our blood stronger than swordplay in yours."

"I don't give a shit about your magic, or hers," Vilkas hisses, conveniently ignoring the pointed question, and finally stomps around the fire to advance on him. Ondolemar rises to his feet, slowly drawing himself up to his full height, but the warrior is undeterred. "I was there when she came back from Markarth. I saw what you did to her, what your _fucking_ Dominion made her feel. I cannot begin to fathom why she allowed you in, or why she -"

"So this is jealousy, then?" Ondolemar prods, savoring the warped snarl that curls across the Nord's face. "You're going to tell me you have no idea what she sees in me and I am only going to cause her pain? That you, perhaps, are the better man, and would treat her as she deserves? Don't waste your breath," he growls, letting the tiniest of sparks web between his fingers. "I gave up _everything_ for her."

The deep bark of hateful laughter that bursts from the Nord's mouth makes him flinch. "You are kidding yourself," Vilkas says, "If you think you have given her anything. She does not trust you, and she is right not to; your kind would gut her in a heartbeat and parade her head on a spike, given half the chance."

" _My_ kind?" Ondolemar seethes, clenching his hands into white-knuckled fists, remembering too well the aching throb in them the last time he had given in to the temptation to strike him, "I have no people, not anymore. I turned my back on their cause, on my whole life, because she was right. Because I -"

"Because you were thinking with your dick," Vilkas accuses, folding his arms tightly across his chest, and Ondolemar notices how his hands are shaking. "Don't you _dare_ lie to my face, you piece of scum. You came here because you wanted a roll in the sack, and your type picks one person for that. You came for no one's sake but your own, espousing honor and repentance when you do nothing but continue to take and _take_ from her!"

"You _dare_ presume to know my reasons?!" The Altmer roars, what pathetic scraps of his patience he had clung to withering in an instant. "I have spoken nothing but the truth since the moment I arrived, and it is _you_ who continues to hound after me and throw about baseless accusations! I -"

"Your timing was perfect," Vilkas growls venomously, sarcasm dripping from every word, and Ondolemar snarls. "Mere hours after our city was assaulted, the dead piled in the streets and the blood deep and thick in the canals, you show up and demand her trust, her bed, her _heart_ when she has spent her days bleeding and fighting for people who will never thank her." Villas takes a threatening step toward him, and the growl that tears from his chest is unearthly. "If you cared for her like you pretend to, you would let her be. You would look around you, for once in your cursed, _miserable_ life, and realize she has given far too much already to be yanked about by a man that admitted _to her face_ he would have killed her!"

"How is it _my_ fault the Stormcloak invaded your precious little town?" Ondolemar barks, and this time the electricity the sizzles across his skin is far from subtle. "How is it my fault that she chose to defend the Jarl and his people, or what their perceptions of her are? Do not blame me for circumstances I cannot control!"

" _You are missing the point!_ " Vilkas bellows, teeth bared, and he shoves his hands through his dark hair and clenches. "How can you claim any sort of affection for her when you continue to ignore her needs? When you are always making everything about _you?!_ Not once, not a single time in the weeks since you arrived, have I heard you say anything even remotely kind about her!"

Ondolemar clenches his jaw around the scathing words and mindless howl burning on his tongue, but before he can make a sound, the Nord spits, "You have given her _nothing_ but heartache and betrayal, and Hircine _take_ me if I let you manipulate her into your fucking bed. She has suffered far more than she should, and I will not let you break her again; she's had enough of that already."

"You _love_ her," The elf accuses through his teeth, and the words taste of nightshade.

For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of their labored breathing, of the crackle of fire and magic, and Ondolemar works his jaw and flexes his fingers to prevent himself from… he does not even know what. He has suspected from the moment he saw the way he looked at her, and his suspicions are confirmed when the Nord can longer meet his eyes.

"It makes no difference," Vilkas finally says, and while his voice is still knife-like, the venom is gone. "She has made her choice, regardless of her better judgement."

"And you are the better choice, I take it?" Ondolemar hisses, unwilling to let it drop because how _dare he_ accuse him of such callousness.

 _I thought you were different. I thought you could_ feel.

And suddenly he sees the heartbreak in her eyes and feels the icy tendrils of her magic on his skin, remembers the quiver in her voice and the glass over her eyes, and he is ashamed.

Before he can flinch at the reminder that it is not such an unpopular opinion after all, Vilkas answers. "There is no one worthy of her hand. She is…"

"The best of us."

"Precisely."

"On that account, at least, we are agreed," the elf huffs, and he lets the magic rippling in his muscles to fade. "But you are wrong. There is nothing I would not do to please her."

Vilkas snorts his disbelief. "Then why do you push when she is not ready? Why do you demand her heart when you know you have failed in its safekeeping before?"

Ondolemar finds he cannot deny the question and its bitter truth, and he sits back down onto the dirt, next to his cold kill, and stares at the snapping flames in the center of their camp. But instead of answering, he intones, "I asked her to marry me."

The guffaw that explodes from the Nord's chest is far more mirthful than the last. "What I wouldn't have given to see her face."

"She denied my hand."

"No shit," Vilkas deadpans, and moves back to his side of the fire, resting back onto the log he had been using as a bench before. "You cannot tell me you expected her to accept. You know next to nothing about her."

"That is precisely what she said," Ondolemar sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face as he takes back up the skinning knife. The blood has congealed in the grass surrounding the carcass and matted the animal's brown hair. "Yet she refuses to tell me anything."

"Because she has spent so long hiding from the Dominion, from all those who would see her dead. Because you shattered her trust before you defected and now she does not know what to think."

Ondolemar looks up at him, through the heat of the fire, and finds him watching his movements intently. He tries not to be annoyed. "And yet she has deemed _you_ worthy, when you gave her the scars on her back."

Vilkas winces so violently he almost regrets the words, but when the Nord hangs his head and sighs deeply he finds he is more curious than vindictive. "Aye," the human says, "That I did, and I will live with that guilt for the rest of my days. I was… a different person, then. It was another life." And his eyes are distant when he says, "She gave me another chance; much like you, I suppose."

"Tell me about her," Ondolemar whispers when he can no longer bear the oppressive quiet. "Please." At Vilkas's quirked brow, he adds, "I swear on my life I ask for no one's gain but my own. I have always spoken the truth; I am here to prove my loyalty, and I want nothing but to understand."

Vilkas analyzes him for a long while, his piercing eyes roving over the Altmer's face, probing and searching and measuring, and just when he thinks he will not answer, he nods.

And tells him everything.

How she had fled the great black dragon in Helgen, and ran straight into the arms of Kodlak and her fate.

How the dragons came, one after another, searching for the blasphemous elven Dovahkiin, and how she had met them each time, her face like stone and her chin held high.

How she had wept at Kodlak's death, and how Vilkas himself had blamed her for it. "The first betrayal," he says with a bitter smile that does not touch his eyes.

How his murderous grief had chased her from their halls and into the claws of the Thieves Guild, and the safety she found in anonymity.

How her predecessor had left her for dead in the bottom of a crumbling ruin, and only by the grace of the Divines had she survived her second heartbreak.

How her flaming thirst for revenge lead her to Astrid and the Night Mother's embrace, and how she, too, had tried to kill her when her back was turned.

How she always walked out of the flames a little darker, a little harder, one more piece missing.

How the dragons kept coming, never ceasing, and how she wept over their skeletons while glowing lustfully with their power.

How she _loathed_ Ulfric and his arrogance, his neglect for his subjects, his overwhelming need to divide Skyrim's people when unity was what they needed most.

How she had sobbed when she discovered she would never bear children.

How she bore the literal weight of the world upon her shoulders, and never once complained of how she had never asked for this, never received the gratitude she deserved one thousand times over.

How she stood, tall and proud, on the Great Porch of Dragonsreach, and the solemn acceptance of her death as she mounted the sparkling ruby dragon, even as he begged her to reconsider.

How the sky had thundered when she returned, broken and burned and battered but _alive_.

How she had cried, tears of joy for once, into his shoulder when she told him she had seen Kodlak, and he was inside the golden halls of Shor where he belonged.

How she had vanished for months, and came back hollow and mechanic, and it was then he had learned of the latest broken dream that was Ondolemar himself. Only the last in a long line of pretty lies and crippling despair.

How her hurt and her anger pushed her to Tullius, and the seething _hatred_ in her eyes as she swore undying loyalty to the Empire, her lip curling as a Thalmor agent chuckled down the hall.

How the Battle of Whiterun had raged, how she leapt in front of blades and arrows alike to save her comrades, and how her Voice had boomed into the night, heralding fire and wrath and death.

It is then that Vilkas falls silent, his brow lowered and his pale eyes brooding, and Ondolemar sits in shocked silence as he attempts to wrap his mind around what he has been told. He cannot doubt the truth of his words, not when they are so hollow with sorrow and guilt, and he _finally_ understands.

"Thank you," he mutters, and he means it. "You are… a better man than I expected. To have seen her through such trials."

Vilkas's chortle is low and rumbling, and his eyes are achingly sad. "I suppose that's the highest praise I can expect. And do not thank me." He nods at the black outline of the city behind the elf. "Thank her."

"I intend to."


End file.
